I forgot the pace of this stage
the goopy churn of hours
the edges of the day worn thin
with repetition
and how unsatisfying it is
to read to someone
who can’t sit up
and wants to eat the book
I forgot how no one really cares
about the fleeting victories
like how long she slept
or how she turns
when you say her name
but they fall out of me anyways
in conversation
like awkward gifts
people thank you for
and then return
which I suppose
is why there are mothers groups
fleets of women like me
with spongy lives
bonded by the triviality
of our days
and this love
wondrous and unwieldy.